


Busy old fool, unruly Sun

by fireblazie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire catches a falling star and builds a moving castle, and Enjolras, who’s been turned into a ninety-year-old man, bangs on his door one day and refuses to leave. A <i>Howl’s Moving Castle</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busy old fool, unruly Sun

**_Prologue:_ **

 

The magic came unexpectedly to Grantaire.

It was July in Paris, hot and muggy. The streets were crowded, as they always were on Bastille Day, and he just wanted to go home. Sure, the parades never let him down, and he always had lots of fun, but it was just so _hot_ , and he was so _tired_ , and he was _starving_.

His mother had lost him in the crowd, too. He stood on his tiptoes, but it did no good—he was just a seven-year-old lost in the throng of people. He grew steadily more irritated, beads of sweat collecting beneath the collar of his shirt, his dark unruly curls sticking to his forehead.

“I want to go _home_!” he burst out petulantly, and then, quite simply, he was.

His bedroom was just as he had left it—unmade sheets, muddy shoes at the foot of the bed, math textbooks peeking out beneath a pile of dirty laundry. He stared down at his hands, at his feet, trembling slightly.

“ _Cool_ ,” he murmured, wide-eyed. “I wonder where else I can go…”

 

*

 

In the years to follow, Grantaire experimented as much as he could with his magic in secret, knowing that it wasn’t “normal”, and yet unwilling to let his talent go unexplored. He conjured new video games in his room, transfigured his vegetables into chocolate when his parents weren’t looking, and, his favorite—teleported to vast, strange places late at night, when everybody was asleep.

Tonight, he was in a damp marshland, where the air was heavy in his lungs. The skies were clear here in a way they never were in Paris, and the stars were so bright. There was one in particular, there—it was shining so brightly, until it shot across the sky, farther and farther away—

 _HELP,_ it screeched, voice echoing loudly and painfully in Grantaire’s head, _HELP ME, PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO DIE._

And Grantaire was off and running, feeling the star’s pain and panic as clearly as if it were his own, pushing his thirteen-year-old body to its very limits, drawing on every last bit of magic in his bones and blood until he finally, finally caught it with shaking hands.

It pulsed weakly in his palms, an unnatural little blob of blue fire. Its eyes, when they suddenly blinked open, were large and full of surprise.

“You saved me,” it said, uncertainly, and then grinned widely. “ _Dude_. Wanna make a deal?”

Grantaire stared at it blankly. “No, I really don’t,” he said, even as the little fireball tried to burrow closer and give him a hug.

 

**_Ten years later, in a land called Ingary:_ **

 

The castle appeared out of nowhere, just beyond the edge of the village. It had everyone in a frenzy, of course—Grantaire the Gruesome and his moving castle were hardly unknown in these parts. According to rumor, the castle had been cobbled together from the houses of his victims, pretty girls whose hearts he’d eaten for breakfast and boys whose livers he’d consumed after a night of debauchery.

They said he’d come out only at night and haunt the local taverns, carefully selecting his victims before luring them away and stealing their hearts and livers. The organs were, as the gossip went, used as fuel for his castle, which roamed freely around the country.

Curiously, there were never any dead bodies, although a few of the younger ones would make a big fuss about it to anyone who’d listen: “I saw him, I really did!” Cosette, his little sister, had said once. “And I know he was going to take my heart away, only Éponine called him a dirty word and scared him off.”

“That I did,” Éponine had said proudly.

Enjolras thought it was all rubbish, really, and that they were all just playing into Grantaire the Gruesome’s plans for eventual world domination. (That was how these evil wizards always worked, and the government was so _stupid_ for giving in every single time. He refused to think about Malicious Montparnasse’s short-lived reign of terror—a bureaucratic mess if he’d ever seen one.)

The government, though, was a corrupt one. It had always been that way, for as long as he remembered—easily paid off by these wizards, allowed to roam the country and terrorize the citizens as long as the fat kings and queens had gold in their pockets. It sickened Enjolras beyond belief, and he and his group of friends had slowly been gathering support in the community to overthrow the current monarchy.

He found power in words, and wrote for a local paper, articles that denounced the government, the way they abused their rule. The appearance of Grantaire’s castle had the townsfolk panicking, and he used that to his advantage. Copies of his paper sold out faster than ever before, and he could feel it, really _feel_ it in his bones, that this was the moment they’d all been waiting for.

The group met weekly at a small café tucked next to a hat shop, and he was, without fail, always the last one to leave. He gave his handwritten drafts a final once-over before tucking them into his bag. He stretched his arms over his head, made to extinguish the candles, and—

“So you’re the one causing all this trouble,” said a deep and gravelly voice, and Enjolras, to his credit, did not jump or flinch.

Enjolras had never seen Royal Wizard Javert up close, but he was as intimidating and imposing as the gossip claimed. Old enough to be his father, Javert possessed a serious, lined face, and regarded Enjolras with little emotion.

“I am to give you a final warning,” Javert said at last, “and if you do not heed this warning, I am to exact a punishment upon you.”

Enjolras scoffed. “You know as well as I that they have given me numerous warnings, and I have heeded exactly none of them.”

“Yes.” Javert eyed him gravely. “It’s a shame, but you leave me no choice.”

He raised his hand and waved it over Enjolras’ body. Enjolras refused to look away, staring him down all the while. It was a peculiar sensation, a slight buzzing through his joints, fading away moments later into dull aches and pains, and a curious sense of fatigue.

“Goodbye, Enjolras,” Javert said solemnly, and Enjolras could only watch as he disappeared into a cloud of thin smoke. He—hobbled, his knees weak, around the perimeter of the table, to the bathroom near the back, pushing the door open with shaky hands and staring at his reflection with a sense of grim defeat.

He looked—well. He looked remarkably like his grandfather, actually. Thick, graying hair tied back in a loose ponytail, deep-set wrinkles on his cheeks, lines at the corners of his eyes. He let out a heavy sigh, raising a hand to his face.

“Damn,” he exhaled, leaning heavily against the counter.

 

*

 

Combeferre shook his head. “I may dabble in a little magic, but there’s no way I could ever undo a curse placed by the Royal Wizard.”

“I know.” Enjolras examined his hands with a sort of clinical detachment: the leathery skin, the age spots, the thickened nails. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask. Especially since you’re the only one who could figure it out with me having to say anything about—” And his mouth clammed up on its own, preventing him from saying anything else. It was a fairly standard part of a curse, now that he thought about it.

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” Combeferre said slowly, and Enjolras shifted in his seat to look at him. “You could find Grantaire the Gruesome.”

It was such a ridiculous name, Enjolras thought, though maybe that was the point. “And convince him to help me out of the goodness of his heart?”

“I’ve been trying to find out more about him,” Combeferre said earnestly. “As far as evil wizards go, he’s not…really. Evil, I mean. There are rumors about him eating hearts and livers and whatnot, but there’s no concrete evidence. No dead bodies, for one. Do you know he’s known as Sorcerer R in Kingsbury? Hardly a title befitting of a malicious wizard.”

“I suppose it’s our best shot,” Enjolras agreed, though he was still doubtful. “Fine. Might as well get started.”

He stood, peering out of Combeferre’s window. Grantaire’s castle chugged along noisily, black smoke pouring forth from an assortment of chimneys.

“You’ll be okay,” Combeferre said, patting him on the shoulder and moving to helping him stand. “If you want, I could go with you.”

“That’s unnecessary,” said Enjolras, brushing him off. “Stay here, continue the work. We’re so close. And of course I’ll be fine. He certainly won’t want to eat _my_ liver.”

Combeferre grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

 

*

 

Combeferre used his magic to transport Enjolras reasonably close to Grantaire’s castle, but was unable to actually deposit him on his doorstep. “There’s a sort of defensive spell put up,” he’d said apologetically, but Enjolras was hardly surprised. Evil wizards didn’t get their reputation by having an open-door policy, after all.

The castle was an ugly thing, even more so up close, and it really did look like it had been hastily patched together from an assortment of different houses and buildings. The continuous outpouring of black smoke could hardly be good for the environment, either, and he resolved to take it up with the wizard once he met him. (Enjolras had been called many things, but cowardly was not one of them.)

He leaned heavily against the sturdy cane Combeferre had procured for him before he left, contemplating his options. The castle hovered about two feet off the ground, hardly an impossible height to jump, but his knees were already protesting the short distance he’d had to walk.

Still, he had no choice, did he? Enjolras gritted his teeth, and gripped his cane tightly. “You’d better not let me down,” he told it, for no reason other than he felt like it, and took off running, arm outstretched, and leapt as high as he possibly could—

The handle of his cane hooked over one of the dusty railings, and Enjolras inhaled sharply as he realized he was floating above ground. Quickly, and a little ungracefully, he climbed over, collapsing heavily against the castle’s front porch. He took a moment to regain his bearings, looking out at his home village. Like this, with the sunset as a backdrop, it appeared like something out of a storybook, quaint and picturesque.

He stood up clumsily, retrieving his cane, and knocked heavily against the front door. It didn’t budge. He knocked, this time louder and more insistently. It was growing colder, and he was tired and he wanted nothing more than to sit down in front of the fireplace. He knocked again.

“Open up!” he barked, his cane falling into a steady pattern of _thump-thump-thump_ against the heavy wooden door, and then, suddenly, it did.

A pale, freckly boy stood uncertainly over the threshold. Enjolras surveyed him coolly. He was about his age—his _real_ age, anyway—and he hardly looked like an evil wizard bent on world domination—

“I don’t think I’m supposed to let you in,” the boy muttered, “though I don’t know if he’d actually notice.”

So he wasn’t Grantaire, Enjolras thought. “It is cold,” he declared, “and I am an old man in need of shelter. _Move_.”

The boy did, and narrowly missed being whacked by Enjolras’ cane. The castle inside was dusty and dark, lit only by a dimly glowing fireplace. He headed there first, pulling a rickety old chair in front and sinking gratefully into it.

There was a faint whistling sound, and it took a couple of seconds for Enjolras to realize it was coming from the fire in front of him. If he squinted, he could just make out a pair of bright green eyes, and a pair of thin lips.

“That’s a pretty awful curse,” the fire said, sounding sympathetic. “Who’d you piss off to get saddled with that one?”

 _The Royal Wizard_ , he tried to say, but his tongue felt like it had been glued to the roof of his mouth. The fire laughed.

“That old fart, huh?” The fire leaned out of its hearth, staring at him closely. “You’re pretty, though. Maybe he was jealous.”

Enjolras glared. “Do you know how to—” he gestured to himself, words failing again.

“How to break it?” The fire clucked its tongue. “Sure. Nothing in this world comes free, though, does it?”

“What do you want?” Somehow this fire demon seemed more trustworthy than a man who would call himself Grantaire the Gruesome.

“Just a fair and equal trade,” said the fire innocently. “See, I’m under a curse of my own, too. You break mine, and I’ll break yours.”

“But I don’t know any magic,” Enjolras protested. The boy from earlier approached him from behind, setting a glass of iced water on a footstool beside him. Enjolras eyed him suspiciously. “You’re very quick to welcome me,” he said.

“If Courfeyrac trusts you, I trust you. I’m Marius, by the way, Grantaire’s apprentice.” He offered him a smile. “If you’re here to see him, he’s out. It might take a couple days. Or he might be back tonight. Who knows?”

Grantaire didn’t stay in the castle every day, then, Enjolras thought, filing the information away. “Thank you,” he said curtly, turning back to the fire. Courfeyrac, he remembered. “What’s your curse, then?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Courfeyrac gestured to his surroundings. “The poor innocent fire demon, trapped by a heartless wizard to power this castle singlehandedly, forced to move it hundreds, nay, thousands of miles every day! It is a most horrid fate.”

Marius laughed. “You exaggerate!” He turned to Enjolras. “He exaggerates. He and Grantaire get along very well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, _he_ was the one who entrapped him.”

“Lies!” Courfeyrac cried, shaking a spindly fist at him and sending a shower of sparks everywhere. “But, you know. Regardless of how it may have come about, I am trapped here. And a broken curse for a broken curse. Sounds fair, right?”

It was his best option, not to mention his only option. Enjolras nodded. “Deal.”

 

*

 

Enjolras spent the next two days exploring the castle for clues on how to break the curse. Grantaire had a fairly extensive library, filled mostly with magical texts that were arranged seemingly at random. But, curiously enough, there were also a decent number of non-magical books, many of them he’d never heard of, and he considered himself extremely well-read. He took one of them with him, _The Three Musketeers_ , and read it on nights he couldn’t sleep.

He stayed away from Grantaire’s room, though not for lack of trying. There was some sort of spell that prevented him from turning the knob. He supposed evil wizards must treasure their privacy.

He was beginning to think Grantaire didn’t actually exist when the man himself opened the front door—had the dial near the doorknob always been black?—and strode into the kitchen without a word, tossing his coat on one of the empty chairs he passed. His clothes were ill-fitting and unkempt, not quite the image Enjolras had had of the infamous wizard.

“You’re back,” greeted Marius excitedly, “did you bring it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire muttered, voice hoarse, extricating a paper bag from within his coat. Marius tore it greedily, and Enjolras barely caught a glimpse of the book’s title— _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ —before he escaped to his room.

“What about me? Courfeyrac asked eagerly. Grantaire crossed the room, produced a glass bottle of— _vodka_ , Enjolras squinted to read, and emptied its contents directly into the fire. Courfeyrac surged up towards the chimneys and belched, loudly. “God, that’s good stuff.”

“Only the best for you,” Grantaire drawled, ignoring Enjolras even as he walked by his seat. He produced another bottle of what he’d dumped on Courfeyrac, uncorking it and drinking straight from its mouth. Enjolras couldn’t hide his repulsion. It wasn’t even nine A.M.

“We have a guest,” Courfeyrac called, “this is Enjolras, and he’s under a curse.”

“How utterly unfortunate,” Grantaire said to his wine, “I wish him luck in breaking the damn thing.”

“I don’t expect you to help,” Enjolras snapped, and now he knew with complete certainty that Courfeyrac was his only hope. “But I will be staying here for the time being. I won’t make a mess, and I’ll clean up after myself. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

“I doubt _that_ ,” said Grantaire, gulping down his wine.

“I have no intention of interacting with you at all,” said Enjolras irritably, “so you can feel free to go about eating as many livers as you please.”

Grantaire raised his glass in a mock toast, an empty smile playing on his lips. “The better to drink up with, my dear.”

Enjolras turned away in disgust.

 

*

 

“I’m in love,” Marius sighed over breakfast one morning. Grantaire snorted into his spiked coffee, and Enjolras calmly took another bite of his eggs.

“Oh, tell us more!” Courfeyrac called from the hearth. “What’s she like? Or he?”

“She’s wonderful,” said Marius, staring off into the distance. “She works at the local bakery, near the secondhand bookstore we always go to, you know? And she has the loveliest hair and the loveliest face and the loveliest smile—”

“Does this specimen of loveliness have a name?” Courfeyrac pressed, and Marius let out another long, drawn-out sigh.

“Her name is Cosette,” Marius proclaimed, and Enjolras choked on his toast. This was so much more painful when he was ninety years old, and he struggled to reach for his coffee, gasping for breath.

It happened quickly, literally in the blink of an eye: Grantaire stood up, handing him his mug of coffee and thumping him gently on the back. Enjolras let out one final, hacking cough before swallowing down his coffee greedily. He whirled around to thank him, but he was already gone, disappearing into the bathroom.

“Oh, Enjolras, are you all right?” Marius peered worriedly at him, and Enjolras waved him off.

“I’m fine—the name caught me off guard, that’s all. She’s my sister.”

Marius turned bright red. “Oh! She’s—ah. I mean—”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Enjolras reassured him, because Marius had been nothing but kind to him. “Our father, maybe. But Cosette can handle herself. But don’t tell her about me,” he warned, “I don’t want her turning up here, poking her nose in business that doesn’t concern her.”

“I won’t,” Marius vowed, but he was staring at Enjolras in open fascination, probably trying to discern any resemblance to his beloved. “Listen, I have some assignments to complete for Grantaire, but afterwards, I could maybe try my hand at your curse? I’m still an apprentice, but I know my way around his library, at least.”

His library that was completely disorganized, Enjolras remembered, books thrown everywhere with no rhyme or reason. “I’d like that,” he said sincerely. He wasn’t really making any progress on his own. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to watch you complete your assignments. I know very little about magic. It doesn’t run in our family.”

Marius lit up. “Oh, absolutely!” Enjolras found himself watching Marius and his cheerful, innocent demeanor. He’d be good with Cosette, he thought.

Marius’ first assignment consisted of turning a mouse into a teacup, which took a few tries—his first attempt resulted in a teacup with a mouse’s tail for a handle—but it was impressive, nevertheless. Combeferre’s particular brand of magic had always had more practical uses: a candle that never went out unless the user snapped his fingers, a miniaturizing spell for his various books and notes so that he could carry them more easily.

Grantaire was nowhere to be found during this time, and Enjolras found himself growing indignant on Marius’ behalf. “Shouldn’t he be teaching you?” he demanded.

“He does, usually,” Marius said blithely, “but he’s been busy.”

Enjolras scoffed. “With what? Terrorizing the countryside? Eating girls’ hearts and boys’ livers?”

Marius looked up from the pain-relieving potion he’d been brewing. “Eating girls’ hearts and—oh. You’re from Market Chipping, that’s right. That’s not really true.” He laughed nervously. “Grantaire sent me there to ruin his name. It was the first thing I thought of, and, uh, he actually really liked it!”

“Why would he send you to ruin his name?”

“To avoid getting too much royal work, I’d think.” Marius returned to his potion-brewing. “In Kingsbury, he turns into a massive froglike creature that eats children whole.” He paused. “He eats a lot of things, now that I think about it.”

“Wait.” Enjolras leaned forward in his seat, the smoke from Marius’ cauldron clouding his eyes. “Why would he be getting royal work? He’s an evil wizard, isn’t he?”

Courfeyrac cackled from the fireplace. “Grantaire? Evil? As if!”

“Between you and me, he was up to be the next Royal Wizard.” Enjolras blinked in surprise. He supposed Grantaire must have been good at what he did, but to have caught the attention of the king? “He turned it down,” Marius went on. “The king, naturally, wasn’t happy—you don’t really say no to the king and live to tell about it, do you?”

No, you didn’t, Enjolras thought grimly.

“But he struck a deal with him, somehow. I don’t know all the details myself, but he does part-time work for the king, and gets left alone for the most part, to roam around in his castle. And he does work for the village—that’s where most of our income comes from. Little spells and things that the villagers need. We open in a half-hour, you’ll see.”

And he did see—there were little children clearly sent on errands by their parents, sent to collect spells for an upset stomach, enchantments for fruitful crops for the year. Some of them he recognized from his neighborhood, who had attended his weekly meetings.

“What’s this?” he asked after the last one had left and Marius had tacked a **CLOSED** sign to the door. He gestured to the strange-looking dial directly above the doorknob. The dial was divided into four equal segments, each a different color.

“It’s really impressive and complicated magic,” Marius replied. “So each dial leads to different place, right? Today we stayed in Market Chipping, which is why it stayed at green. If we turn it to red, we go to Kingsbury—” He demonstrated for Enjolras’ benefit, swinging the door open to reveal posh carriages and throngs of people dressed in the latest fashion on the streets. “Blue goes to Porthaven—” Fishing villages, this time, and the distinct, crisp smell of the ocean. “And black—well. I don’t know. We’re not allowed to go there, only Grantaire is.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” declared Enjolras, and he moved past him to fiddle with the dial himself. “He returned from there the other day, didn’t he? He brought presents as well. It can hardly be eternal hellfire.”

“You are extraordinarily nosy,” Grantaire said from behind him, taking Enjolras’ hand and moving it aside. He turned the dial back to green.

“Do you keep your livers and hearts there?” Enjolras demanded, trying not to show his shock at his sudden appearance.

“Livers and hearts and skeletons in my closet,” Grantaire said easily, opening the door. “I’ll be back late. Don’t burn the castle down.”

“I will do my best,” Courfeyrac promised solemnly, and Grantaire raised a hand in acknowledgment before pulling the door shut behind him. Enjolras watched him disappear through the window, his hand inexplicably warm where Grantaire had touched it.

Must be his magic, he thought, dismissing it from his mind.

 

*

 

He’d torn one of his sleeves while doing the laundry, and it was bad enough that it needed fixing.

“Marius, where do you keep your needle and thread?” Marius scurried off to one of the back rooms and retrieved a small metal box. Enjolras accepted it with a murmur of thanks, draping his shirt across his lap and skillfully threading a needle.

“You’re quite good at that,” Grantaire remarked from his seat across from him. He was reading the newspaper, and apparently was going to stay in for the day.

“A necessary and useful skill,” Enjolras said, beginning to repair the tear. “I always got into skirmishes when I was—younger.”

“Plotting to overthrow the monarchy?” Grantaire smiled him with humorless eyes.

“You’ve heard of me.” Enjolras stiffened.

“There’s hardly a soul in this country that hasn’t heard of the young revolutionary, dreaming of a better world.”

“You sound like a skeptic.”

“You are correct, as always.” Grantaire set the newspaper down to focus more on him. “What good comes of it? Your king has been on the throne for years and years, and I don’t see him leaving any time soon. And look at you—is your cause really worth it?”

“It is,” said Enjolras, adamant. “I will use myself if I have to, as a living example of the monarchy’s corruption.”

“Hm.” Grantaire looked at him thoughtfully. “I have to confess that I don’t understand the point.”

“I’ll make you,” Enjolras promised.

“I look forward to it.” Grantaire smiled.

 

*

 

“You are going to stay _put_ , do you hear me?” Enjolras snarled through gritted teeth, savagely stitching together the ripped elbows of Grantaire’s green shirt. He was bored; Grantaire was locked up in his library, Marius was out running errands, and his knee was bothering him again.

Courfeyrac watched him intently. “Does that help?” he asked. “Talking to things.”

“Yes,” Enjolras bit out. “This is pathetic—how did he even ruin this shirt?”

“A spell gone badly, I think,” said Courfeyrac nonchalantly. “Have you thought about lifting my curse yet?”

“I don’t even know the first place to start,” replied Enjolras angrily, “you know I know nothing of magic, and you want me to break a curse that’s strong enough to hold a fire demon?”

Courfeyrac looked abashed. “I know. But I think you could do it.”

“How?” demanded Enjolras. “Where do I even begin?”

“Begin with what?” Grantaire interrupted, frowning at them. “Is that my shirt?” He took it from Enjolras without waiting for an answer. “Are you mending my shirts? And you cleaned the bathroom last week, I noticed. Are you giving up on being a revolutionary and pursuing a career as a cleaning lady?”

“I don’t like sitting idle,” Enjolras said stiffly. “And your clothes are terribly kept.”

“Of course you don’t, and of course they are,” muttered Grantaire. “Still. Leave my stuff out of it. Do not enter my room, please. Mend Marius’ clothing, if you must.” He inspected his newly mended sleeve, testing the strength of Enjolras’ stitches. “You certainly made it resilient, didn’t you?”

“What crawled in your bed and died?” Courfeyrac asked Grantaire before Enjolras could reply, frowning at him. “If you’re going to be nasty, go away.”

“Nothing—just think I’ve made a mistake, is all,” Grantaire said absentmindedly. He turned away and made for his bedroom, taking the shirt with him.

“I think you’ve made worse mistakes,” said Courfeyrac. Enjolras went to the kitchen, preparing a cup of coffee. “You could’ve gone out and caught a dying star, maybe.”

“The biggest mistake of all,” said Grantaire wryly, before finally leaving the room.

“You had your hint, by the way,” Courfeyrac informed Enjolras.

“What hint?” asked Enjolras, perplexed, but Courfeyrac settled into his logs and went straight to sleep.

 

*

 

His chest had been bothering him all day, a faint tightening beneath his ribs that grew steadily more insistent as the morning passed. He ignored it, as he always did whenever he felt the slightest bit ill. It was probably just a side effect of the curse.

It grew worse after lunch, to the point that he was unable to even stand. He sagged heavily in his chair, exhaling rapid and shallow breaths.

 _Am I going to die?_ He wondered hazily, suddenly realizing the ingenuity of Javert’s curse. This way, they could easily rid themselves of the problem without drawing any unwanted attention. Who would suspect foul play when an old man died of a heart attack?

The world was growing blurry, and breathing was just so _hard_. It seemed all too easy to just close his eyes and drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep…

“Enjolras!” Grantaire barked at him, shaking him violently. It was the first time he’d addressed him by name. He pronounced his name a little differently, with just a hint of an accent. He wondered, again, about the black dial on the door and how Grantaire always seemed so different when he came back from whatever was on the other side of it.

“Oh, god, what do we do?” Marius said anxiously, taking Enjolras’ wrinkled hand in his. “Tell me what you need, Grantaire—”

“Courfeyrac!” Grantaire called urgently, and Courfeyrac went deathly pale and quiet, but that was strange—Courfeyrac was _never_ quiet—

The world righted itself, as abruptly as it had gone wrong. Enjolras was able to breathe again, the oxygen a fresh and welcome sensation in his lungs. He drank it in gratefully, clutching at whoever’s hands were holding his tightly.

“You’re fine now,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras stared into his eyes—blue, sort of green, and strangely glassy. “You do live for the drama, don’t you?”

“Shut—up,” Enjolras wheezed, and Grantaire moved away, seemingly satisfied. His left hand fell limply into his lap. Marius was still holding his other one.

“You’re fine, though, right?” Marius asked, still concerned. Enjolras slid his hand out of his, brushing him off impatiently.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said brusquely, though he still felt a little weak. Marius didn’t leave, still hovering over him. “Make yourself useful and brew me a cup of tea.”

Marius immediately moved to do so. Grantaire stood over Courfeyrac, talking in hushed tones. Enjolras strained to hear, but it was no use. Grantaire turned to him suddenly.

“Let’s not repeat that, shall we?” he said, uncharacteristically serious.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” retorted Enjolras, but Grantaire was already walking away in the direction of his bedroom. When the door shut, Enjolras slowly made his way towards the fireplace.

Courfeyrac looked—exhausted. His fire was a little less red, and his tips of his flames flopped over dejectedly.

“What did you do?” Enjolras asked, confused.

“Helped,” Courfeyrac murmured, half-asleep. “He couldn’t do it on his own. Bringing someone back from certain death takes a lot out of you. G’night.”

Marius brought him a steaming mug of tea. Enjolras accepted it gratefully, sinking down into the chair directly opposite Courfeyrac’s fireplace, watching him curiously.

“He’ll be okay,” Marius reassured him. “He just needs to sleep it off. He used to do this a lot, when Grantaire would work on the really complicated spells.”

Enjolras didn’t comment, just took a small sip of his tea and continued his vigil over Courfeyrac. Marius left, presumably to do some apprentice work.

“I expect you to be back to normal by dinner,” he whispered fiercely, “and don’t you dare be otherwise.”

A few hours later, Courfeyrac was clamoring for more logs, and bacon.

“You recovered quickly,” Grantaire said, more than a little surprised.

“Yeah, I dunno,” Courfeyrac said around a mouthful of bacon, “I guess I wasn’t as tired as I thought I was?”

Enjolras ate his dinner ravenously—apparently almost dying was an exhausting task—and completely missed the thoughtful look Grantaire gave him.

 

*

 

The dial above the door was turned to black today, and Enjolras stared at it with undisguised curiosity. Courfeyrac, seeing this, shook his head.

“It’s personal,” he said.

“Personal,” Enjolras echoed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Personal, as in, none of your business,” Courfeyrac replied cheerfully. “Oh—no, sit back down. Fine, fine! I’ll tell you.”

Enjolras eyed him doubtfully.

“I’ll tell you what I know, anyway,” Courfeyrac amended. “So… Grantaire isn’t exactly from Ingary.”

Enjolras failed to see why that was such a big secret—Ingary received plenty of immigrants every year.

“Or, you know. From this world.”

“Oh.” Somehow, Enjolras wasn’t entirely surprised. Things made sense now—the odd little gifts Grantaire brought back from his trips, the books he’d never heard of. He understood only a little of the Related Worlds, the parallel universes created from alternate outcomes at important, decisive events in history—and only then because he’d stuck his nose in where he shouldn’t have. It was a closely guarded government secret.

“It’s not safe, is all,” Courfeyrac was saying. “I don’t know much about that world, and I’m pretty sure you know even less. They have—all different things. Cars, Grantaire said, for travel. Air—airplanes? Electro—er. Well. No magic. Or very little of it.”

“How did Grantaire get here?” Enjolras wanted to know.

“I’m not sure,” Courfeyrac admitted. “He’s always been very good at teleporting spells, but normally those only transport you from place to place in your _own_ world. But what I do know is this: once he got old enough, he moved here permanently, built this castle, built that portal. He goes back every once in a while. He still has family there, you know.”

Family. It was a foreign concept when applied to the wizard known as Grantaire the Gruesome, though it had been a while since Enjolras had thought of him as such. He wondered what his parents were like, if he had any siblings, if he had any lovers back home.

“I want to see,” he decided, standing up. Courfeyrac leapt up, panicked.

“No, no, no,” he said, “I don’t think—”

“I’m a harmless old man,” Enjolras said, and instantly felt every ache in his bones all at once, “what could they possibly do? I’ll take Marius with me, if it would make you feel better.”

“Take me where?” Marius asked, having only been half-listening to their conversation as he pored over an ancient spell book.

“To wherever that black dial leads,” Enjolras replied, “and don’t even start with me. If you refuse to accompany me, I will simply go by myself.”

Marius bit his lip. “I’ve always been curious,” he admitted, and Enjolras grinned despite himself. “Okay,” Marius relented, “but only for a little while. An hour at the most.”

“Grantaire is going to kill me,” Courfeyrac moaned, but went largely ignored.

Enjolras brought an extra coat and kept his cane close as Marius opened the door to a busy, crowded street. There were large vehicles whizzing down the roads, things that resembled carriages but moved far more quickly, and weren’t pulled by horses.

The people looked different, too. They were in a greater hurry than people ever were in Market Chipping, and they hardly spoke to one another, focused on a funny little rectangular shaped thing in their palms. Enjolras, more than once, found himself shoved roughly past, and he bristled at their rudeness.

“I’m beginning to regret this,” Marius muttered, and Enjolras agreed. The streets seemed to go on forever, though the buildings vaguely resembled the ones he’d grown up with, at least. There was an odd looking tower in the distance that rose above the other buildings. He wondered if it was an important landmark; they often were.

He began to walk randomly, and heard Marius hurry behind him. So this was where Grantaire had grown up. It did seem utterly devoid of magic, and he realized belatedly that they were speaking in a language he’d only heard very rarely in Ingary.

“French?” he said in an undertone to Marius.

“Yes?” Marius furrowed his brow. “I think that’s Grantaire’s native tongue. He has some books, but they’re all in his room.”

Enjolras’ ancestors had come from a country that spoke French, before they’d crossed the ocean and emigrated to Ingary. He wondered if this parallel universe was its equivalent.

“I think we should go back,” Marius whispered, but Enjolras pressed on. They walked in no particular direction, Enjolras taking in the sights. It was a beautiful city, he admitted to himself, and in another time and place could easily see himself living here. As the day passed and the sky grew darker, the streetlights were lit with something like magic, and the city itself seemed to breathe and glow.

“Have you seen enough yet?” Grantaire’s voice sounded in his ear, and he took him by the elbow and guided him back the way they came from, taking him past the shops and the streets. Enjolras couldn’t look away.

“It’s beautiful,” he said honestly, and Grantaire let out a surprised laugh.

“I bet you wouldn’t say that if I told you the President lived nearby,” he said, and then, turning to Marius, “Fine job you did, guarding this one.”

Marius looked abashed. “Sorry.”

They made their way back to the castle in relative silence. Grantaire didn’t seem angry at all.

“I’d like to go back again,” Enjolras said, “maybe make a day of it.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire said vaguely, retreating to his room.

“Well?” Courfeyrac demanded. “How was it? What did it look like? What were the people like?”

“Busy,” Enjolras answered, slowly, “but beautiful, in its own way.” He remembered the dizzying streets, the soft lamplight, the quick pulse of the city.

“I’d like to go,” Courfeyrac said wistfully.

Enjolras suddenly felt very sorry for him. “One day you will,” he said.

 

*

 

Grantaire seemed to stay in more often nowadays, and was rather a pain in the neck. Enjolras knew they were very different people, and prone to arguments, but it seemed manageable when Grantaire was rarely ever around. He supposed Grantaire was lucky to have found such easygoing companions on Courfeyrac and Marius, who were two of the most pleasant people he’d ever met.

Courfeyrac, in particular, seemed interested in his cause. “No, so the king really does impose unfair taxes on the villagers?” he said, filled with indignant and righteous fury. “That’s terrible! Grantaire, did you hear?”

“I heard,” said Grantaire dryly, and shot Enjolras an indescribable look. “Stop indoctrinating my fire demon.”

“I will do no such thing,” was Enjolras’ immediate response, intent on converting Courfeyrac. “Look at what he’s done to me—do you honestly think he was a righteous king?”

“You have a point,” conceded Courfeyrac.

“I could lift your curse,” Grantaire said, while scribbling some notes over a bubbling cauldron.

Enjolras snorted. “You couldn’t possibly.”

Grantaire shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, taking the cauldron out back to rinse it out.

“Why’d you say that?” Courfeyrac asked, frowning. “He’s very good, I told you. Honestly, he probably could.”

“If he could, he already would have,” said Enjolras reasonably.

Courfeyrac eyed him shrewdly. “You could stand to have a little more faith in him.”

“Faith? In him?” How absurd.

“It might come in handy someday, just saying,” Courfeyrac said, “now, okay, so tell me more about the king.”

 

*

 

Grantaire left in a hurry that morning, hastily gulping down his coffee and sprinting out the door with barely a word of goodbye.

He was in such a hurry that he left his bedroom door open.

Enjolras didn’t waste any time, slipping in undetected before Courfeyrac or Marius could notice. The first thing he noticed was how dusty it was. It made his nose itch, and he had to fight down a sneeze. There were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and even in the dimness of the room, he could see the spiders scurrying away into their secret corners.

Grantaire’s bed was unmade. There was a half-empty bottle of liquor on the bedside table, and books strewn about everywhere. His closet was open, and there were a number of suits hanging inside. On the ground was a meticulously drawn array—he knew enough not to touch or disturb any part of it, and hung back at the doorway, taking in the precise curves and lines made at Grantaire’s hands.

His desk had an assortment of objects he’d never seen: vials containing potions in every color, textbooks written in an old, archaic language he couldn’t decipher, and one of those strange rectangular devices he’d seen when he’d visited Grantaire’s homeland. He picked it up, testing its weight. It was light but sat comfortably in his hand. He pressed a button; the screen flashed at him but did nothing else, and he put it back down on the table.

The books, he took more time examining. Many of them were written in Latin. He took his time going through the pictures, trying to see if there were any illustrations of young men turning into old ones, but to no avail.

He heard Marius calling for him outside, and quickly returned the books to their proper places, knocking a stack of envelopes down along the way. He knelt down to pick them up, putting them back where they’d been next to a particularly gaudy pair of earrings, when one of them caught his eye.

It bore the royal seal, and was considerably weightier than the others. He hesitated only briefly before lifting the flap and taking the letter out.

 _To Wizard Grantaire_ , it said. _The contents of this letter will surely be of no surprise to you. We are asking you, once again, for your aid in ridding the country of Ingary of a certain number of gentlemen, who persist in sowing the seeds of political turmoil amongst the people._

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire, as usual, had a penchant of appearing when he was least expected, and with a silent grace.

“You forgot to close your door.” Enjolras hadn’t dropped the letter. He watched as Grantaire’s gaze flickered to it.

“And of course that was an open invitation,” Grantaire said. “Enjolras, it’s not what you think—”

“I think it is exactly what I think,” Enjolras hissed. “You and Javert, working together. You don’t believe in what I say. You’ve said so yourself. And Marius told me you’d been asked to become Royal Wizard—”

“Which I turned down!” Grantaire snapped. “Because I didn’t want to work for the king and do his dirty work! Think, Enjolras—if I had wanted to kill you, I have had plenty of opportunities.”

It was true. “Then lift my curse,” said Enjolras.

“Fine.” Grantaire raised his hand. It glowed, briefly, before returning to its natural state. Enjolras looked down at himself. Nothing had changed.

Grantaire laughed, hollowly. “You don’t believe I can do it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He didn’t deny it.

“You’re more powerful than you give yourself credit for,” Grantaire murmured, “especially over me.”

“What?” But Grantaire was leaving again. Enjolras hobbled after him. “You always do this—walk away, whenever it’s most important! What does this have to do with anything? If you’re as good as they say you are, this curse should be nothing to you.”

“Oh, it’s not the curse that’s stopping me,” said Grantaire without mirth, “it’s you.”

He was standing at the door now. The dial was turned to black.

“Will you sit and have a proper conversation with me for _once_?” Enjolras demanded, but Grantaire was out the door before he’d even finished his sentence. Enjolras lurched forward, seizing the knob, but all of a sudden it was hot and searing to the touch. He jumped back, cradling his hand.

Marius was there in an instant, examining it worriedly. “It’s not injured,” he said, and it wasn’t. The skin wasn’t damaged at all. “But, er, I wouldn’t push it.”

Enjolras determinedly made his way back to Courfeyrac, who had watched the proceedings with wide eyes and hadn’t said a word. “Talk,” he commanded.

Courfeyrac tried to hide behind his logs. “I don’t know anything,” he mumbled.

“Yes, you do!” Enjolras insisted, frustration bubbling up within him. “You and Grantaire—I don’t know who’s worse. The two of you keep secrets all the time. He’s much less subtle about it than you are, but I know you know more than you’re letting on. The two of you—you’re connected somehow, aren’t you?”

Courfeyrac peeked out. “You—you noticed?”

“He always stays home when he needs to do something complex,” Enjolras muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “When my heart nearly stopped, he called for you. Why?”

Courfeyrac let out a sigh. Marius had gone silent.

“Once upon a time, I was a falling star.” Enjolras stared at him. “No, really. I was. And Grantaire caught me, mostly because he felt sorry for me. I was dying—that’s what falling stars are, did you know? And we wrote up a magical contract, where he would keep me alive and I would multiply his magical powers.”

“So you entrapped him as much as he entrapped you,” Enjolras said, remembering his first day here.

Courfeyrac grinned wryly. “Something like that.”

“And you want me to break that contract?” Enjolras let out a bitter laugh. “Me? With no magic?” But then he remembered what Grantaire had said before he left. “But what did Grantaire mean?”

This time, Courfeyrac averted his eyes. “I think you should talk to him about that,” he said, and refused to say anything more on the subject.

 

*

 

Grantaire didn’t come home for three days.

Enjolras kept himself busy, as he did. He scrubbed the kitchen floors, cleaned out the bathrooms, tossed out old vials that looked like they were far too old to be useful. He hesitated only briefly before venturing into Grantaire’s bedroom once again, ignoring Courfeyrac’s pointed sighs and Marius’ anxious protests.

This time, he drew the curtains open, watching grimly as spiders scurried away from the light. The dust and cobwebs were more obvious when bathed in sunlight, and Enjolras grabbed his well-used broom, sweeping everything out into the open.

He stacked books and letters neatly on the desk, but didn’t open any other letters with the royal seal (there were two others). He spent a few hours skimming through Grantaire’s books, but found nothing regarding his curse, and hadn’t expected anything different.

He spent a lot of time thinking about Grantaire and who he really was. He was so secretive, and was so _good_ at walking away when Enjolras actually wanted to have a conversation, and appearing when he was most unwanted. Enjolras had spent four months in this place, he abruptly realized, and hardly knew anything about Grantaire besides the fact that he was a wizard, and wasn’t originally from this world.

When Grantaire finally came home, he was completely, out-of-his-mind drunk.

Marius lugged him over to the fireplace. Enjolras hung back, irritated and worried all at once.

“Where have you been?” Courfeyrac asked, concerned.

“Here and there,” slurred Grantaire, waving a hand. “Where is—ah! Enjolras! As handsome as ever, I see.”

Enjolras ignored him. “We need to talk,” he said, and Grantaire snorted.

“Of course we do!” He stood on swaying, unsteady legs. “You may, as usual, select the topic of conversation. Shall we start with how little faith you have in me? Or about how I am but a mere puppet for the king, intent on wiping out everybody who dares to speak against him? Or—oh, yes, my personal favorite, my general uselessness and lack of talent? Do take your pick, and quickly; the day wastes away—”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire stopped abruptly, and his eyes were as open as Enjolras had ever seen them. “What?”

Enjolras didn’t say it again. “It’s good you’re back,” he said, and left the room.

 

*

 

An uneasy truce developed between them over the next few days. Grantaire came home every night from whatever it was he did during the day, and Enjolras kept out of his room, mostly, no closer to breaking his or Courfeyrac’s curse.

It was hot, that night, even with all the covers thrown off. Enjolras couldn’t sleep, and he was thirsty. He slid out of bed and felt his way to the kitchen with only the aid of Courfeyrac’s dim firelight, coming to a sudden halt when he heard Grantaire’s hushed voice.

“—shut up, will you, that’s not the point here,” he was muttering.

And Courfeyrac laughed, quietly. “You can’t lie to me, of all people,” he said, amused, “your heart’s been jumping like a cricket ever since you saw him in the streets denouncing the king and calling the people to arms.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Enjolras saw Grantaire’s shoulders lift into a shrug. “He can either break our curse or not. But he can’t stay here forever.”

“What, you don’t like him anymore because he’s not as pretty?”

“I don’t care what he looks like,” said Grantaire, and it was the most honest Enjolras had ever heard him. He stumbled on a loose nail on the floor. Grantaire whirled around.

“Thirsty,” Enjolras explained, awkward. Grantaire strode to the kitchen without a word and poured him a glass of water. Enjolras accepted it and took a large gulp, eyeing him with undisguised interest.

“It’s late,” Grantaire said. “I’ll turn in now.” He looked away, and headed towards his bedroom. “Sleep well,” he added belatedly, and Enjolras stared after him, glass still in hand. Once his door shut, he turned towards Courfeyrac.

“What were you talking about?” he asked, and Courfeyrac let out a noise of disgust.

“You two need to actually talk to _each other_ ,” he declared, and promptly went to sleep.

 

*

 

He went out to the market with Marius on Friday morning, who quickly left him once they passed the bakery where Cosette worked. Enjolras peered in through the windows to check up on her briefly; once he was satisfied that she was doing well and Marius had her entire, undivided attention, he left them.

“She’s been asking after you,” Marius had told him urgently before they left the castle, “but I think your friend—Combeferre?—told her not to worry, that you’d gone to Porthaven on business.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras had said, “I’ll explain everything—after.”

There _would_ be an ‘after,’ he thought fiercely, there had to be.

It was a nice day out, if a little humid, and Enjolras took his time strolling through the market stalls. The strawberries, in particular, looked tempting, though he belatedly remembered that Grantaire was allergic. He picked up the smallest box for himself and headed for the book shop where Combeferre worked. It had been far too long since he’d spoken to him, and there was a great deal of things to discuss.

But Javert was there, in the shade, standing directly in front of the shop. He was wearing a blue hat. Enjolras thought it looked ridiculous.

“I did not think you were still of this world,” Javert greeted him. Enjolras’ gaze flickered towards the shuttered windows of the bookshop, resting on Combeferre’s figure behind the counter, reading a book in the quiet.

“I have often been told that I am full of surprises,” said Enjolras calmly.

Javert didn’t look away. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I do believe that.”

Enjolras wondered if he was going to kill him, and if he could possibly stop him in any way. The answer was obviously a no. Would he kill Combeferre too? And Marius, and Courfeyrac, and Grantaire—

“There you are.” Grantaire’s voice was warm in his ear, and Enjolras felt a sense of relief and fear flood through him as Grantaire took his elbow and stood at his side. Grantaire glanced down at the bag he was carrying. “You know I can’t eat strawberries.”

“They’re not for you,” Enjolras retorted, even as he fought against his instincts to grab Grantaire and run.

“So it really is true,” Javert said in wonder. “You actually have taken him in. You realize you are harboring an enemy of the throne.”

“He’s hardly an enemy of the throne in this state,” said Grantaire nonchalantly, “as you probably planned.”

Javert inclined his head. “The king will not be pleased.”

“Is he ever?” Grantaire remained maddeningly calm. Enjolras shot him a look. “With that said, it has been a pleasure, Javert, and I look forward to not having any more meetings of the sort. Goodbye.”

He turned first. Enjolras gave Javert a last, parting look—he would not visit Combeferre today and risk making him a target—and caught the flash of magic Javert aimed at Grantaire’s back. He dug his nails into Grantaire’s forearm. “Gran—” he began, but Grantaire whirled around, faster than Enjolras thought he could, and deflected the blast with one of his own. It singed Javert’s shoulder, though only barely, and he disappeared on the spot.

“Off to lick his wounds, no doubt,” muttered Grantaire. He eyed Enjolras critically. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Enjolras honestly. “Are you?”

Grantaire looked surprised. “Do you actually care?” Enjolras bristled at that, but Grantaire went on. “I’m fine, don’t worry on my account. He won’t—shouldn’t bother us for a little while, at least. But he’ll be back, I’m sure. Are you frightened?”

“No.” And he wasn’t, not for himself. He’d known he’d make enemies when he’d decided to protest against the king. But he eyed the spot between Grantaire’s shoulders that Javert had aimed at, and wondered.

 

*

 

Grantaire was laughing at him, and Enjolras wasn’t quite sure how to react. The flour had, literally, exploded in his face, and he fought down the urge to sneeze. Marius pressed a hand to his mouth, forcing back laughter; Courfeyrac was doing no such thing, his logs crackling with the intensity of his mirth.

“Sorry,” Marius choked out, “I meant that for—for Grantaire—”

“You just couldn’t keep your nose out of it, could you?” Grantaire sounded almost fond, and reached for the torn bag of flour. He peered inside. “Not half-bad,” he told Marius appraisingly, “you’ve improved.”

“I’ll never cook for you again,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire laughed again. He looked so much younger like this, Enjolras thought, so open and relaxed.

“Don’t be like that,” he soothed, “come here.” And he reached out with his hand and wiped away a smudge of flour with his thumb. Enjolras jerked back, startled, and Grantaire quickly withdrew, waving his hand carelessly. The magic tingled, and Enjolras didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that he was completely flour-free.

“Now you’re as perfect as the day you were born,” quipped Grantaire, and Enjolras sent him a halfhearted glare. He never knew what to say when Grantaire said things like that, was never sure if he meant them or not.

“I’m going to go visit Cosette,” Marius said then, a slight blush on his freckled cheeks, “I’ll be back by dinner.”

Enjolras watched him leave, and then turned to Grantaire, who was already heading back to his bedroom. “Wait,” he said, “I have a question.”

Grantaire turned back and inclined his head.

“What you said before,” he began, “about me stopping you from breaking my curse. What did you mean?”

Grantaire surveyed him with an unreadable look, and leaned against the wall. “You really don’t realize,” he murmured. “I mean, you really, truly don’t.”

“Stop being vague,” snapped Enjolras.

“You have magic,” Grantaire said abruptly, glassy eyes suddenly focusing on him. Enjolras blinked, startled, but Grantaire didn’t stop to let him process any of it. “A different sort than mine, and Javert’s, and your friend Combeferre, but magic nonetheless.”

“That’s ridiculous,” protested Enjolras, who’d never done a magical thing in his life. “I don’t—”

“It’s in your words,” Grantaire cut in, looking weary. “You bring life into things, into people. Whenever you rallied the people, that was your magic at work. Every single time you deny your magic, it seals itself away, little by little.” He shot him a sardonic smile. “Whenever you tell me I could never possibly lift your curse—well. You get the point.”

“Are you actually serious?” demanded Enjolras, still in disbelief.

“Yes, we are,” Courfeyrac said earnestly. “That’s how I knew you could break our curse. That’s why I let you in. Do you think we let any old man that bangs on our front door in the house?”

“Then why can’t I break my own curse? I’ve had more than enough willpower for _that_.”

“It requires two people, mostly because Javert likes to make things complicated.” Grantaire lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I suppose you and your friend Combeferre could manage it.”

“He already tried,” admitted Enjolras. “You could do it,” he suggested then, but Grantaire only laughed.

“Doubtful,” he said, and finally retreated to his room. Enjolras faced Courfeyrac, who was looking at him with an apologetic expression.

“He’ll come around,” he said with false cheer. “And, I mean. You haven’t really shown the greatest faith in him, you know?”

He knew. “What am I to do about _your_ curse?” Enjolras stared down at his flames, perplexed. “Just—will the curse away?”

“Uh, probably something a little more than that. But no rush! At least you guys are being honest with each other now, right?”

Enjolras wasn’t convinced. “I need to think about this,” he said.

 

*

 

He visited Combeferre first thing.

“So your words have magic,” said Combeferre thoughtfully. He grinned. “Well. It’s not exactly surprising, now, is it? I should’ve known. I—to be frank, I had my suspicions.”

“But what I wonder,” said Enjolras with a frown, “is if I have been compelling the unwilling into supporting our cause. I won’t have anyone that doesn’t _want_ to be with us. And as tempting as it is to storm into the castle and force the king to abdicate—”

“No, I don’t think that’s how your particular brand of magic works.” Combeferre shook his head, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’m hardly an expert, but I’d say that your power lies in drawing out what lies dormant. You can’t force what isn’t already there. Think about it: you were only ever able to convince those who were on the fence, right? Those who were strictly with the king never actually crossed over to our side.”

Enjolras relaxed and let himself smile. “You’re right. As usual.”

Combeferre accepted the compliment with a slight nod. “So, to the next topic at hand. Do you think Grantaire will be able to lift your curse?”

Enjolras made a noise of frustration. “I suppose he’s the best chance I’ve got.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know!” Enjolras snapped. “I can’t help how I feel.”

“But why?” asked Combeferre, genuinely curious. “Has he ever shown himself incapable of wielding his magic? With his reputation, that’s doubtful.”

“No,” Enjolras admitted, “he’s—quite excellent.”

Combeferre fixed him with a piercing gaze, and Enjolras resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. It usually meant Combeferre was about to tell him why he was wrong and what he needed to do to fix it.

But today Combeferre merely finished his cup of tea and glanced up at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

“Yes.” Enjolras pushed his chair back, its legs scraping against the floor. “I should be going.”

“For the record,” Combeferre said, as they stood at the door, “I think you believe in him more than you know.”

Enjolras snorted. “Always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

“I wonder who in the world I picked that up from,” said Combeferre lightly as he leaned in for a brief hug. “Take care of yourself.”

Enjolras waved him off and made the trek back to the castle.

 

*

 

Their backyard was a tangle of wildflowers and weeds. Enjolras had threatened the entire expanse of land with weed-killer more than once, but had never had the heart to do it. Grantaire loved the backyard and the beautiful mess that it was. Sometimes, Enjolras could almost see what he saw in it.

 _I don’t care what he looks like,_ Grantaire had told Courfeyrac that night, and there was very little doubt in Enjolras’ mind as to whom he’d meant. He didn’t know how to feel about it. Grantaire, to him, was a source of endless confusion: once he’d answered one question, two more popped up in its wake.

Grantaire didn’t think he believed in him, and maybe he hadn’t, at the beginning. But he had been nothing but cordial to him, an old man who’d bullied his way into his castle and invaded his home. He’d saved him more times than he probably deserved, and there was a lingering sense of gratitude in that respect. Nearly five months had passed and Enjolras had come to see that Grantaire was more than his façade of laziness and skepticism. He’d seen Grantaire go up against Javert, even if only briefly, and win.

He had, Enjolras remembered, even restarted his heart. For all intents and purposes, he should have been dead by now.

He plucked a dandelion from the grass, staring at it until he went cross-eyed. _Turn purple_ , he commanded it, thinking of the dark shirt Grantaire favored. It did, obediently, and Enjolras ran a fingertip over the now purple florets.

“What a mess,” he said to it.

There were so many things he still needed to do. He had never feared dying for his cause, had come to accept it a long, long time ago. But it was strange, now, finding both old and new reasons to live.

Lazy afternoons spent with Cosette, baking bread for their father. Years of school spent with Combeferre. Finding an unexpected home in a dirty, creaking castle. He stared up at the structure from where he sat, at the windows he’d cleaned, at the walls Grantaire had spent a weekend repainting by hand. For such an ugly thing, he’d grown awfully attached to it.

And then the castle exploded, and everything went dark.

 

*

 

 _You have to wake up,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like his own was telling him.

Everything hurt, and he couldn’t open his eyes. He tried to think of what had happened—one of Marius’ assignments gone wrong? But, no, that couldn’t be right—hadn’t he gone to town to visit Cosette? No, it was only Grantaire and Courfeyrac and himself, and he had gone out to the back to think about his newfound magic, and—

His eyes shot open. He was flat on his back, on the grass, and the entire sky was covered in smoke. He scrambled to his knees, ignoring all the aches and twinges the sudden movement brought him. It didn’t matter, anymore, that he was old and moved slowly. All that mattered was that he had to go back into the castle.

The castle was half-gone. Shingles hung broken from the roof, the windows were totally shattered, and the smell of dirt and ash clogged the air. Still, he pressed on. _Courfeyrac,_ he thought urgently, and _Grantaire_ —

The fireplace had completely caved in. “Courfeyrac,” he choked out, “Courf—”

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” His voice was weaker than normal, but he was, thankfully, alive. “Go to Grantaire, quickly—”

Enjolras hurried to Grantaire’s room, side-stepping broken plates and overturned furniture. Grantaire was stuck beneath a bookshelf, and his heart beat painfully against his ribcage. He knelt down beside him and grabbed him by the collar. “Wake up,” he demanded, and never mind if his voice shook, “wake _up_.” He turned his attention to the bookshelf—“Move, damn you,” he hissed, shoving at it with his feeble strength, and it obediently flew across the room.

Grantaire had opened one of his eyes. The other one was still shut, a painful looking cut bleeding from his eyelid. “Get out of here,” he murmured. “S’not safe.”

“The hell I will,” he shouted. “Tell me, what do you need? Hurry!”

“Javert will be here soon,” Grantaire muttered, “to finish the job.”

“I won’t let him,” Enjolras vowed, and felt the strength of his conviction in his bones. “You—you still need to break my curse.”

Grantaire managed to laugh. “Consider it done,” he said lightly, and waved a hand in his direction, only to widen his eyes a second later. “Enjolras—”

“What,” Enjolras gritted out, oblivious to the blond strands of hair flying across his face. “Grantaire, you’re bleeding from the chest and I am not properly trained to treat it; you need a doctor—”

“He’s here!” Courfeyrac screamed, and Grantaire forced himself to sit up on the floor, grimacing as he did so.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras demanded. “You can’t take him on—”

“Have you lost faith in me so quickly?” Grantaire smiled at him, and it was soft and tired and unlike any other smile Grantaire had ever given him. “It will be okay.” He winced as he stood up to his full height. “Well. Probably.”

Enjolras seized his hand. “You are not allowed to die, do you hear me?”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission,” Grantaire said lightly, and squeezed his palm before leaving. Enjolras rushed after him.

It was magic unlike he’d ever seen before. It wasn’t like in the storybooks he’d read with Cosette when they were children—no wands, no incantations spewing from their lips like poison. It was a silent, deadly battle, and it was impossible to tell who was winning—

But, no: a cut was blooming across Grantaire’s cheek now. Enjolras willed it to go away, and it stopped bleeding. Grantaire gritted his teeth, visibly trembling from the exertion of the battle. Javert took one, then two steps forward, beads of sweat trickling down his face. He was growing tired too, and looked ready to end it all now.

“Goodbye,” Javert said solemnly, raising a hand.

Grantaire shouted something unintelligible at the same time that Enjolras focused his entire attention on Javert’s form. “Die,” he whispered, grimly, and Grantaire let out another roar and a final push of magic before sinking to his knees. Javert faded into a pile of ashes and scattered outside in the wind. Enjolras felt no remorse, rushing to Grantaire’s fallen form.

“Grantaire, you need a doctor,” he said, fiercely, unbuttoning his shirt to tend to his wounds. There were a number of bruises and scrapes, and a large, nasty cut across his stomach. The muscles between his ribs retracted with each painful breath. “Grantaire?” But he’d lost consciousness.

Enjolras cursed, and pressed an ear to his chest. There was, curiously, nothing. He sat up—but he was still breathing, still pink…

“Looking for this?” Courfeyrac called, looking sheepish. Enjolras stood up and carefully, oh _so_ carefully, picked up his log and set him on a broken, wooden chair nearby. He looked exhausted, too. “There may have been more to our deal than I let on.”

Enjolras drew closer to the fire, paying no mind to the heat. There, nestled at the very core of Courfeyrac’s flame, was a small, beating heart.

“You _idiots_ ,” he breathed.

“Take it,” Courfeyrac urged. “I don’t—I don’t need it. It’s fine.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” hissed Grantaire suddenly, glaring furiously at Courfeyrac, who shrunk back into his log. “Don’t—just _don’t_.”

“Shut up, both of you!” barked Enjolras, staring at Grantaire’s beating heart. “If I give this back to Grantaire, he lives?”

“Yes,” said Courfeyrac, as Grantaire said “No.”

“Those injuries are too goddamn severe!” said Courfeyrac, growing suddenly angry. “You need your heart back. We can’t keep living this… this half-life! It’s not fair. Not to you. Not to me. Not to Enjolras.”

“Do you think I would be happy with this, if you essentially killed yourself to save me? You have lived with me for far too long to think I would just sit back and let you—Enjolras, what the _hell_ —”

Enjolras picked up Grantaire’s heart. It was so fragile, and he held his breath the entire time it pulsated in his hands. He pushed it back into Grantaire’s chest. It went willingly, settling back comfortably. Grantaire immediately sat up, looking considerably healthier, and considerably angrier.

Courfeyrac was dying. Enjolras turned his attention to him and seized him in his hands.

“ _Live_ ,” he commanded, fueled by terror and desperation. “Live, damn you, for a hundred-thousand years and terrorize us until we’re old and gray.”

Courfeyrac let out a long sigh and blinked his eyes open. “You mean until you’re old and gray _again_.” He hovered above Enjolras’ palm, emanating a warm and steady heat. “Whoa. Wait. You mean I can leave now?”

“You’re welcome back whenever you like,” Grantaire said from the floor, and Courfeyrac bobbed towards him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I personally want to meet this Combeferre fellow,” Courfeyrac said. “He sounds most attractive.”

“He’ll probably be at the coffee shop,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, and Courfeyrac whooshed away.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Until _we’re_ old and gray?”

Enjolras stared him down. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Grantaire laughed, and the sound was richer and fuller than Enjolras had ever heard it. “No,” he said, “I don’t think it will be at all.”

 

*

 

Marius and Cosette were married in the spring.

It was a beautiful wedding, and everything had gone perfectly—Marius hadn’t tripped over anything; Cosette’s dress had managed to remain unscathed through a mishap with the wedding cake, though whether magic had been involved Enjolras will never tell; and Courfeyrac had turned up as Marius’ best man.

“I forgot to tell you,” Enjolras said as he bit into a slice of cake, “the king has finally agreed to a meeting on Monday morning.”

“The Monday after your beloved sister’s wedding?” Grantaire scooped up the strawberries from his slice of wedding cake and deposited them on Enjolras’ plate. “How unlucky.”

“Deliberately so,” agreed Enjolras.

“We could go somewhere after you inevitably return victorious,” said Grantaire lightly.

“What, like a date?” Enjolras scoffed, and blinked when Grantaire went abruptly silent and stared down at his cake. “Well—I wouldn’t mind.”

“You don’t have to,” said Grantaire, turning away. Enjolras recognized the gesture for what it was: an abrupt dismissal, and Grantaire closing himself off from him once again.

Enjolras elbowed him, bringing him back. “We could go to Paris,” he suggested, and Grantaire’s smile lit up the whole room.

 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Belated birthday fic for [nuitdenovembre](http://nuitdenovembre.tumblr.com/). Sorry it’s so late!
> 
> Thanks to [lucifers-lawyer](http://lucifers-lawyer.tumblr.com/) for looking over the beginning of this. Remaining screw-ups are one-hundred-percent mine.
> 
>  _Howl’s Moving Castle_ (and _The Chronicles of Chrestomanci_ , which I allude to veeeery briefly in the story) by Diana Wynne Jones is a thing of beauty and remains one of my favorite books to this day.
> 
> Title is from “Song” by John Donne and is a thinly veiled reference to _Howl’s Moving Castle_ as well.
> 
> [Say hi on tumblr?](http://fireblazie.tumblr.com) Though, fair warning: it has turned into a massive Winter Soldier blog and I’m not even a little bit sorry.


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